


Sometimes, a family

by skogr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, based on the Valo-kas war table missions, but the Chargers and his relationship with them is very key and I feel this is worth mentioning, this is not strictly gen because it does pay close attention to Iron Bull/Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: “You heard Krem and I, huh,” the Iron Bull says, and just gets a snort in reply. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”Still no answer, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t listening.“Unless the boss finds another dragon, obviously, in which case, fuck you guys, I’m fighting a dragon.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can only ask that you forgive me for the title.
> 
> I'd also just like to say that a huge, huge influence on this has been Stonestrewn and would emphatically direct you their way if you haven't already. I hope the inspiration I've taken from their work shows in this as the enthusiastic flattery it's meant to be.

The Chargers return to Skyhold just as dusk starts to settle in along the ramparts, a little bedraggled from the weather but otherwise none the worse for wear. Not that he doesn’t trust Stitches to look after them, but it’s the first thing the Iron Bull surreptitiously takes stock of as he meets them in the Herald’s Rest, slaps them cheerfully on the back, ruffles their hair, lets himself be a perfect caricature of the concerned father figure so they won’t see the real truth of it. 

Krem hates the cold, it settles in his bones the same way it settles in the Iron Bull’s, a relic from another life of milder winters and balmier summers. The Iron Bull orders a round of warm drinks with this in mind, and Krem relaxes back into the chair besides him with the drawn-out groan of someone who’s been sat on a horse for far too long. There’s a fresh but neatly knitted together gash across his temple, thin and perfectly straight, and Krem catches him looking at it, but doesn't comment. It’ll heal up nicely. Stitches is efficient before he’s neat, but when he can afford to be, he’s real neat. 

“So,” the Iron Bull says, pushing a steaming mug towards him. “How’d it go?”

“Pretty good, all in all. You read the report?”

“Got it from Red yesterday.” He rests his elbows on the table and grins. “Nice work with the demon.”

Krem grins too. “You should’ve seen Dalish, chief, just when I think I know what she can do, she goes and surprises me again.”

“Yeah?”

“She nearly burned my damn eyebrows off, but it was impressive. I’ve got this theory,” Krem says, and then pauses, continuing only once the Iron Bull lets out a low, curious noise. “It’s only when she’s fighting magic, isn’t it? That she really lets loose, I mean.”

He’s a smart kid, Bull thinks, warmth blooming in his chest both from the drink and his affectionate pride. In his absence he trusts Stitches to pick them up and dust them off, keep their wounds tended and their scars neat, but he trusts Krem to look after them in all the other ways, to notice their moods and their fears and their strengths, and to make all the jumbled pieces fit together somehow. 

“Pretty much,” the Iron Bull says, and he can see Krem mulling that over with the kind of care and attention he knew he’d give it. He’s mulled it over a bit himself, too. He wondered if it was something worth working on for a while, if it was worth pushing Dalish out her comfort zone and drawing her attention to her own biases and insecurities, but was never really convinced by that angle. The Chargers aren’t about that. 

“Good to know,” Krem says eventually, evidently coming to the same conclusion. “Much appreciated, anyway. She did good.”

“The others?”

“They’re good,” Krem says fondly, “Skinner learned a new dice game.”

“Uh oh.”

“Picked some new stuff up for Rocky, so maybe keep your distance until he washes the sulphur off. Grim’s been real quiet.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, but  _ quiet  _ quiet, smartass.” Krem rolls his eyes. “Demons have that effect on people.”

“They really do,” the Iron Bull says, and they fall quiet for a moment. Skinner and Rocky are bickering in the background, more lively now they’re warm and have hot food and drink in front of them. Grim is quiet, but not  _ quiet _ quiet from what he parses of Krem’s analysis, which is good. Stitches just looks like he needs a good night's sleep, but what's new?

Bull’s still nursing the ale he ordered hours ago, wanting a reason to be there while he waited for them to return, though they don’t need to know that. He’d thought about travelling to join them once his business with the Inquisitor was finished, excusing himself as her party returned to Skyhold and leaving to kill demons with his company, for a change. Seriously considered it, even, got as far as planning his route and everything. He didn’t in the end, and wouldn’t have even if it’d made logistical sense, because he knew where he was really needed.

“Next job,” he says, “I’m coming with you. They can do without me for -”

“Chief,” Krem says, a little amused and a little exasperated, “don’t worry about it.”

“It’s been too long.”

“It’ll take longer than that for us to forget you, you big idiot.” Krem elbows him. “We’re doing just fine.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean you weren’t.”

“I know, it’s just - you’ve got places to be, and we’ve got places to be. Saving the world from the big, bad, magical Vint, remember? We’re all doing our part.”

The Iron Bull chuckles. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

“We’re still the Chargers,” Krem says stubbornly, “always will be.”

_ No, you won’t _ , Bull thinks softly, and is startled by the clarity of the thought as it occurs to him. He’s a smart kid, Krem, smart and capable and compassionate, and there are so many places in this world he could go that aren’t lieutenant to a Tal-Vashoth mercenary. All of them could, and now all of Orlais knows it for sure, especially the ones with deep pockets. He’s proud of them. They’ve earned it. He grasps Krem by the shoulder with a grin that is only forced by a very small fraction, but the laugh that follows is all genuine Iron Bull, happy to be reunited with his company. His Chargers.

He notices Adaar by the door just as Skinner has launched into her own telling of the demon fight, rolling a dice between her fingers the same way he’s seen others do with coins and clearly spoiling for someone to ask her how to play. The Iron Bull reckons he might just indulge her, given a few more drinks. Adaar catches his eyes and grins, but doesn’t start heading to their table until he beckons her over with a nod. She stands upright from where she'd been leaning against the doorframe and absentmindedly tapping a folded piece of paper against her chin, and pockets it. She's come straight from a meeting, then, and evidently her thoughts haven't quite left the War Room.

She looks - for lack of a better word - mutinous, despite the grin. It's an expression that looks sour on most people, but looks kinda aimable when she does it. All the stubbornness but without any of the bite.

“Nice work with the demon,” Adaar says when she reaches them, which goes down well with his guys and has him grinning too, their victories always his to delight in, even at a distance. “That was quick thinking from you especially, lieutenant.”

“Thank you, ser,” Krem says, flushing slightly but sounding pleased. That's how you can tell Krem’s been through the Tevinter military meat grinder, when he trots out those deferent little responses while the rest of them just raise their glasses and cheer. It's a good habit; the Iron Bull approves. Not that he disapproves of the others, but Krem's his second, and his professionalism has gone a long way in getting the Chargers where they are today. Folks hiring a company like theirs want some of the rough-around-the-edges charm they expect to see, but they also want the 'yes ser's and orderly efficiency that Krem is so good at projecting. It's all about hitting that sweet spot in-between the two, and the Chargers do it well.

What the Iron Bull doesn't approve of is the Tevinter instilled blush that spreads across Krem's face, the soporati modesty they wouldn't teach an altus or even a laetan. You'd never find anything like that under the Qun, everyone takes quiet pride in their own competence, knowing they're doing what they ought to be, and doing it well. It takes a long time to unlearn that sort of habit.

The Iron Bull ruffles Krem's hair again and then jerks his head towards the empty seat beside him. “Want a drink, boss?” Stitches pushes an unclaimed mug across the table as Skinner removes her feet from the bench to make room, which for Skinner is practically a gilded invitation sent by Orlesian courier. “We're just getting started.” 

Adaar grins again but shakes her head. “Wish I could. Have a round on me, though, for all your hard work.” That's met with another round of boisterous cheering as she lowers her voice a little. “Bull, you got a minute? I won't drag you away from the party long.”

“Everything okay, boss?”

“Yeah.” Her brow creases slightly. Just enough that he sobers up a bit. “I’d just appreciate your input on a tactical matter.” 

“Sure.” He slaps Krem on the back and pushes his drink away he stands up. “You guys get started without me.”

“They're fucking round the back again, aren't they,” Skinner says, sounding proud. “Disgusting.” 

“‘ _ Again _ ’?”

“Tactical matter, Skinner,” the Iron Bull says loudly.  “I'll be back in a minute. Don't get too drunk without me, alright?”

“Very  _ tactical,” _ Skinner says, her eyes glittering, “get it out the way before the ale goes to your dick.”

“Hey, you take that back. Nothing  _ ever  _ goes to my dick, and you know it.”

“Wait, so every time they disappear off somewhere -”

“Don't think about it too much, Stitches. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.”

“Yeah, well, Skinner's fucking ruined that for me, hasn't she? So thanks for that, by the way.”

The Iron Bull grins widely as they bicker, Adaar watching it all with an unperturbed smile. He likes that she can withstand even Skinner's brand of friendliness, because that's what this is when it comes right down to it.

“I'll have him back to you in ten minutes,” Adaar says, beautifully unruffled. “How's that sound?”

“Sounds like bullshit,” Skinner offers, and Krem drags his hands down his face with a groan.

“You can have my drink,” the Iron Bull says, and she gives him a sharp grin with too much teeth. 

“Enjoy your tactics, chief,” she says, the closest to demure she gets. 

“I will,” he tells her - a rookie mistake, but whatever - and follows Adaar out the door to raucous laughter. 

“Just so we're clear,” he says, as they take a left turn past the training dummies to get out of earshot of the tavern’s bustle, “this is business, right?” They don’t completely round the corner, staying close enough to a hanging lamp that they have light to see each other by, the shadows throwing long, dark shapes on her face. She looks tired now, or at least weary.

“Business,” she confirms, lips twitching not like she's trying not to grin, but like she wishes she could summon a proper one but doesn't have it in her. Another hint that whatever she's brought from her meeting is actually serious.

“I figured. How can I help, boss?”

She hands him the folded piece of paper and then folds her arms and leans against the wall with a frown as he reads it. It only takes a moment to skim Red’s neat writing now he's used to the way she reports things and knows where to look for the key information.

“They've got your company,” he says, stating the obvious because it doesn't seem like she wants to. Adaar nods slowly. “Rylen’s got men nearby?”

“Ready to go when Cullen sends the word.”

“Alright,” he says, and studies her face closely as he hands the paper back to her. There it is again, that mutinous expression, though it's unhappier than before. She'd kept that under wraps in the tavern well enough, but she makes no effort to hide it now.

“It should be me,” she says fiercely, and he nods slowly.

“Rylen's men would be quicker,” he says, “but there's nothing to indicate they aren't planning on keeping them alive, especially if they've figured out that they've got a connection to you. I don't think the delay would change things, boss, if you want to do it yourself.”

She shakes her head. “The Lydes delegation arrives the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh,” the Iron Bull says, and then, “ah, shit.”

“Josephine says we'll really fuck it up if I'm not there.”

“She'd know,” he says, and then he softens his voice. The way she would with him. “Rylen's got a good head on his shoulders. He'll do it right.”

“They're my guys, Bull,” she says, “it's my fault they even got taken, and they're  _ my guys _ .”

“Hey,” he says, “I know.”

“You'd go, if it was you.”

“But I'm not the Inquisitor,” he says, and she makes a frustrated sound through her teeth. Even when she’s angry, she’s still self possessed. If he could bottle that and take it back to the Qun, well - that's not what he does now, and they wouldn't believe it anyway.

“I don't think storming the cave is the right call,” she says, “but it's not like Rylen has an infiltration team, so what can I say?”

“There's always a risk with situations like this, however you do it.”

“Yeah?” She looks at him. “Ever had one like this?”

“Similar. Orlesian noble kidnapped another noble’s daughter, held her to ransom in the cellar until they agreed to give him some kind of trading contract or something, I forget. Some noble bullshit. The house was built into the mountainside and the cellar went right into the middle of it.” He grins. “Smashed a lot of expensive wine fighting through that.”

The corner of her mouth curls a little. “What happened?”

“We took it real easy, real quiet. Skinner’s pretty damn light on her feet when she wants to be, and they didn’t spot us until we were almost on top of them. There was barely enough room to turn around, so it was more of a civilised candlelight wrestle than a real fight. Very Orlesian. Rocky knocked him out with a bottle, in the end. He was making puns about it for weeks.”

Adaar chuckles, as he’d hoped. “Who wouldn’t?” Her laugh tapers off slowly. “Less wine in this cave, though. I’ll tell Rylen that if he - ”

“Send the Chargers.” It’s such an obvious solution, he’s surprised she hasn’t asked. “I'll take them first thing tomorrow and oversee it personally, we can be there in three days. We've dealt with plenty of anti-Qunari fanatics, trust me.”

Adaar meets his gaze with interest but shakes her head slightly. “I appreciate that, Bull, but they're only just back. I can’t ask that.”

“They can travel with a hangover,” the Iron Bull with a chuckle, but then he looks at her directly so she knows he’s serious. “Just giving you options. Say the word and we’re on it.”

“The Iron Bull  _ and _ his Chargers?”

“Just for you, boss. The full package.”

“It should be me,” she says again, but with less pent-up fierceness. “I’d… feel better if you were there, actually. I hate to ask -”

The Iron Bull chuckles again. “So don’t. I’m offering, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I don’t want to take the Chargers away from anything operationally critical.”

“You won’t. Listen; let me tell the guys, you tell Cullen, we all have a drink and a good time, and then we’ll leave first thing while you stay here for all the political crap and make nice with the clerics.”

She just looks at him for a long moment. “Are you sure?”

“It's nothing less than you would do for me,” he says quietly, and reaches out to place two fingers underneath her chin. No pressure, just a suggestion. She leans into his hand with a smile. “Nothing less than you've already done, kadan.”

“Thanks, Bull.”

“Besides,” he adds, “we're already on your payroll.”

“Ah, yes,” she says, “the monthly extortion you call a fee.”

“Yeah, but we're worth it, don’t you think?” He moves his hand to her shoulder and starts to walk her slowly back into the wall, further into the shadows. 

“Overpriced,” she says with a smirk. “Orlesian inflation is giving you a big head. Now, if you’d ever done much work in the Marches -”

“We worked in the Marches.”

“For the same prices?”

“Sure.”

“I’m calling bullshit,” she says indignantly, and watches as the Iron Bull places his other hand against the wall, trapping her loosely. She raises an eyebrow. “I should probably tell Cullen not to send that message to Rylen.”

“He can wait five minutes.”

Another incredulous moment of her eyebrows. “Five?”

“Eh, fifteen.”

“ _ Bull _ .”

“He won’t send anything without your permission. He wouldn’t sneeze without it if he thought it counted as Inquisition business.” This is said just below her ear in a low voice as he pulls her hands slowly behind her back, and he can tell it’s getting to her. It’s designed to; that’s sort of the point. 

“Right,” she says, and to her credit, if he didn't know her as well, he’d believe she was truly unaffected. “But just to be sure  -”

“Skinner got to you, didn’t she?”

“They’re just on the other side of the wall,” she says sheepishly, but makes no move to leave.

“Never bothered you before.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think they  _ knew _ .”

The Iron Bull chuckles quietly. “Whatever we do, they’re not going to assume anything different now Skinner said her piece, you know.”

“I know,” Adaar says, and despite her best efforts she breathes a little quicker when he lets his breath fall warm on her neck. Always the neck with her. Her shoulders are tense, but not, he suspects, from worrying about what Skinner thinks. The news of her company has her rattled. “And we  _ were _ talking tactics.”

“We were.”

“Exactly, so I’d rather have the moral high ground.”

“Yeah,” he says, and lifts her suddenly so it’s his hand on her ass instead of her feet that hold her up, back against the stone wall. He hasn’t got much height on her, but she likes it when he uses what he has. “But would you  _ really _ ?”

She knows the word that will stop him, and she knows that he’ll wait a moment for her to make her decision. He knows that she won’t from the way he can feel the tension bleeding out of her like a sigh at the end of a long day. He can give her this, and he can bring her the Valo-Kas. He couldn’t offer any less.

“Well?” the Iron Bull says. “You still want that moral high ground?”

Adaar grins, an answer in itself.

He’ll let Skinner beat him at that dice game of hers later, winning money always shuts her up.

 

-

 

“The thing I don’t understand is how they figure the Herald of Andraste is trying to spread the Qun,” Krem says through a mouthful of bread, “you know, through  _ Andrastianism _ . Makes perfect sense.”

“They’re fanatics, Krem. They generally don’t make sense.” The Iron Bull rolls out his shoulders; it’s good to be on the road again, and it’s even better to with be with the Chargers. 

“And then,” Krem continues, ignoring him, “they figure that capturing Tal-Vashoth who’ve been publicly denounced by the Qun and maybe even being hunted by Avaards -”

“Arvaarad,” The Iron Bull corrects him absently, “and it’s not - eh, nevermind.”

“ - so they’re being hunted by the Qun, and these geniuses think, why not capture them to show Par Vollen they mean business? Any part of this making sense to anyone else?”

“Nothing makes sense anymore, Krem,” the Iron Bull says, “there’s a big, ugly Vint trying to destroy the world just because he thinks he’s hot shit, so I figure it’s just something going around.”

That gets a grin. “It’s a nice break from demons, right, chief?”

“Anything’s a nice break from demons.” The Iron Bull snorts. “Even this.”

“Right,” Krem says, and grabs another chunk of bread from the cart they’re walking alongside. He’s not that much worse for wear given the night they had, but they all rolled out of bed too late for breakfast in Skyhold. “The Inquisitor’s company are all Qunari, aren’t they?”

“Tal-Vashoth, yes. Most of them.”

“You’re not a big fan of them, chief.”

“I’m one of them,” the Iron Bull says, carefully level, but Krem isn’t looking to cross-examine him, it would seem. 

“That’s different,” Krem says impatiently, his surety a curious thing that speaks volumes of both his lack of knowledge and mistrust of the Qun, and of where he decides to place his regard for the Iron Bull amidst all that. It warms him, and it saddens him. It’s the same damn thing. Exactly the same. “And Adaar too, I suppose.”

“She’s Vashoth,” the Iron Bull says slowly, “which  _ is _ different. Just what are you getting at exactly, Krem?”

“You never liked the mercenary bands like that, you even turned down some of the Qunari who wanted to join the Chargers.”

“They were Tal-Vashoth and I was Ben-Hassrath. I wasn’t about to take them in while I was working for the Qun, was I?”

“I’m just saying,” Krem says, and he holds his hands up and spreads his fingers wide. “Kind of a weird job for you to have volunteered for, that’s all.”

“They’re her guys,” the Iron Bull says, “and she’d do the same for me.” She already has, not that the Chargers will ever really understand that. The Storm Coast to them is just a job that didn’t go quite as planned, not the day the Qun had them carelessly labelled as collateral to Hissrad’s last chance. 

“That’s sort of what I mean,” Krem says, a sly little grin spreading across his face. “The whole… matching necklace thing you’ve got going. That’s why you offered, right? Because you sure as shit aren’t doing it for the poor bastards in this cave.”

The Iron Bull turns to look at him with his one good eye, his expression deadpan. “We’re getting  _ paid _ to rescue those poor bastards, remember?”

“We’d still be getting paid if we sat around Skyhold waiting for the next job from Cullen, you big softie.”

“Alright, alright,” the Iron Bull says mildly, “but this isn’t a vanity job, Krem. Red’s agents put them at easily one hundred, and we’re doing this with no friendly casualties, you got it?

“Yes ser,” Krem says promptly, “never would’ve given it anything less than our best.”

“Hey, I know. Just be ready for a tough fight.”

“Yes ser,” Krem says again, and then that shit-eating grin is back in full force. “So, what’s the necklace mean, chief?”

“You know what,” the Iron Bull says. “I’m going to walk up front with Grim for a bit. Better conversation.”

 

-

 

The wayside inn they stop at is small and neat, hedges perfectly trimmed and an efficient plume of smoke curling out the chimney from a perfectly tended fire. Even the shutters are freshly painted, and there’s a metal brush by the door for scraping your boots on. Whoever owns this place, the Iron Bull thinks, would much rather run a quiet local tavern than an isolated inn for passing travellers, but some folk are determined to keep living lives that don’t suit them. It’s the Southern way of things, and these days it amuses him more than it bothers him.

He leans one elbow on the bar and gives the man behind the bar his best, most jovial grin, on account of how very certain he is that tomorrow morning he’ll be handing over not only the fee for the rooms but an additional charge for damages incurred. The man smiles back readily, which is always a good sign, both for their upcoming bill and for the night ahead. Not that he’s planning on  _ that _ kind of night, but in another time, another life, maybe. It always had the pleasant side effect of running interference when his guys were causing trouble and turning heads in a place too quiet for the Chargers. In this time, this life, he’ll just enjoy the half-intrigued look and try to charm him as best he can without taking it upstairs.

“Name’s the Iron Bull,” he says, and he still enjoys the looks that gets, even now. “Nice to meet you. I don’t suppose you’ve got any rooms going spare for me and my boys?”  _ Boys _ , not two restless elves, a rowdy dwarf, three mismatched humans and the one-eyed Tal-Vashoth that leads them. Boys sounds better. Boisterous, but harmless, maybe even kind of endearing. He grins again, lopsided to complete the picture.

“We’ve only got two, I’m afraid,” the man says apologetically, sweeping his eyes over the assorted company in front of him. “One’s smaller than the other. I, er, I don’t know if you’ll all -”

“That’ll do just fine.”

“Of course, ser. We’ll have them ready in half an hour.”

“No rush,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully, and winks at him because he has a feeling he’ll blush. He does; the tips of his ears turning red as he grins sheepishly back and fumbles the glass he was drying. Behind him, Krem snorts. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Geram.”

“Nice to meet you, Geram. Don’t suppose we could get some drinks and hot food while we’re waiting?”

“Yes, ser.”

After Geram has passed out enough mugs of ale for them all and returned to the kitchen through the door at the back, the Iron Bull takes another look around at the fussy decor and his distinctly unfussy company, and figures it’s probably time he at least tries to mitigate the bill he can see himself paying the next morning.

“Hey -” he begins, but he’s beaten to the punch.

“We’re having a quiet night, alright?” Krem says firmly. “It’s a nice, quiet place, and we’re going to have some food and a couple of drinks and that’s it, got it? Skinner, put the dice away. Rocky, if you start arguing with any of the locals I’ll drag you upstairs myself and tie you to the bed.”

“And not in a sexy way,” the Iron Bull adds, unable to resist. He’s so fucking proud of him, sometimes. Proud enough that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You should be so lucky,” Krem says dryly, and then looks at the Iron Bull with a grin. “Oh, and Chief? Stop getting a kick out of flustering the bar staff.”

“Don’t know why you still bother,” Skinner says, still rolling the dice between her palms despite Krem glaring at him. “Not when you’re getting nothing out of it.”

The Iron Bull reaches over and plucks a die from between her fingers. “You know, Skins, some of us just like being nice to other people. You should try it.”

“I’m nice,” Skinner says flatly, and pulls her hand back before he can reach the other one. “Don’t you miss it?”

“Don’t I miss what?”

“All the sex.” She flicks the die up into the air with a thumb, showing off. “The  _ redheads _ .”

He really should’ve seen this coming, but it’s too late to head it off now. There’s no handling Skinner when she’s in this sort of mood.

“Somehow I don’t think the chief’s hard up on that front, Skinner,” Stitches says, ever the hidden diplomat. “I’m fairly sure he’s still doing pretty well for himself.”

“Oh, yeah,” the Iron Bull says reasonably, “I’m doing just great. Don't you worry about me.”

“Just worried you're getting boring,” she shoots back. 

“Uhuh,” he says, grinning at her, “you come back when you've killed a few dragons, and then we'll talk about boring.”

Skinner snorts but turns away, clearly finished with the conversation. He'll have to deal with it, though, sooner or later, and as he's filing this away he catches Krem's eye. Krem pulls a face; they'll talk later.

“Well,” Rocky says, and the Iron Bull has a feeling he's about to demonstrate his unique capacity to say precisely the opposite thing the situation requires. “I'm just happy the chief's happy.”

“ _ Dragons,  _ Rocky.”

“I kind of meant the whole committed relationship thing, but sure.”

“Life's good,” the Iron Bull agrees, and then realises they're all watching him. “What?”

Krem leans an elbow on Dalish’s shoulder where she's beaming at the Iron Bull. “They grow up so fast, don't they?” 

“They sure do,” the Iron Bull says pointedly. “One minute it's all 'yes ser’ and 'right away chief’ and before you know it they're running their mouth, giving you shit about your fashion choices -”

“‘Tits out’ isn't a fashion choice, chief, it's forgetting to get dressed in the morning.”

“We've been over this,” the Iron Bull says, warming to the familiar bickering and pleased to see Skinner smirking despite her continued silence. “It's a harness. It… harnesses.”

“It's inadequate protection,” Stitches mutters dutifully, honour bound to chip in whenever the subject comes up. 

“Harnesses what, exactly?”

“My impressive physique,  _ Krem.” _

“Oh, sure.” Krem's back to that shit eating grin that means he's about to be a smartass, but the Iron Bull finds himself grinning too. “Some of us are secure enough we don't need to flaunt it, chief.”

That sets the Chargers off banging the table and laughing uproariously, Krem making a show of kissing his bicep, only to stop hurriedly and flush a little when he notices Geram standing by their table with a tray of hot food.

“We'll keep it down,” he says sheepishly, but Geram is fighting back a smirk. “Thank you,” he adds gratefully, and whether he's trying or not, Krem's hitting that sweet spot between respectable and charmingly unpolished exactly right. He's probably not trying, which just makes it all the more disarming, and Geram just smiles. No need for the Iron Bull's broad grin to smooth things over, because that's just the effect Krem has on people without even trying.

He’s a smart kid, Krem, smart and capable and kind and personable, and he's too damn good to have nearly never had a chance to show it. It was worth an eye. It was worth far more than you can measure in flesh and blood.

The bread’s stale and the stew's been sitting long enough to form an unappealing skin on the top, but the company is good. The Iron Bull is content just to sit and soak it up.

 

-

 

Geram wasn't wrong; the rooms are small, and the smallest one is barely big enough for the Iron Bull to stand up straight in. He takes it anyway, sends the rest of them to the room with more floor space and leaves them fight over the beds, Krem following after him without needing to ask.

“Cosy,” the Iron Bull says, sitting at one end of the bed and feeling it sink down beneath him. “Reckon we can both fit in?”

“If it's a choice between you or Rocky's snoring, I'll take a horn in the face anyday.”

“I told you, just roll him onto his side.” The Iron Bull kicks off his boots. “Quiet as a mouse.”

“It’s not that easy,” Krem says, shucking off his own boots and the last few pieces of his travelling armour as he flops back onto the bed. “Rocky’s pretty heavy.” Krem shoots him a grin as he props himself up on the pillows, knees bent but his feet are still touching the side of the Iron Bull’s leg. Eh, they’ve slept in worse and smaller places. Least it’s warm and dry and more or less soft.

“Hey,” the Iron Bull says, fighting through the haze of a full stomach and tired limbs. He wants to talk about a few things before they sleep. “Do we need to talk about Skinner?”

“Skinner’s fine, chief,” Krem says after a moment, gazing up at the low ceiling. “She just misses you, is all.”

“Yeah.” The Iron Bull sighs. “I get it. I need to get out more with you guys, do a few jobs.”

Krem raises an eyebrow. “And miss out on killing dragons?”

“Well, not  _ dragons _ ,” the Iron Bull says, and grins. “But the other boring stuff, like crazy Vint cultists.”

“We’re doing just fine,” Krem says firmly, “you do what you need to do, chief.”

“It won’t be forever.”

“Sure,” Krem says distantly, still looking at the ceiling. “When you’re done killing the biggest, craziest Vint, right?”

“Krem,” the Iron Bull says, “you know you’re doing a great job with them, don’t you?”

Another of those telling little flushes, but he looks pleased. “I’m doing my best.”

“And I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job, you know that. But you’ve got to be thinking about where this’ll take you.”

“Chief?”

“The future, Krem. Leading your own company, or -”

“Chief,” Krem repeats, but with an exasperated groan. “Stop.”

“I’m being serious.”

“See, this is the sort of shit that’s got Skinner all twitchy,” Krem says, propping himself up on his elbows and glaring at him indignantly. “Like you’re trying to - to - disband us, or -”

“Hey, that’s not it.” The Iron Bull holds his hands up and softens his expression. “I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

Krem’s suspicion doesn’t fade entirely. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“I’m trying to look out for you,” the Iron Bull says, a hint of reproach in his voice. 

“I appreciate it, chief, but I’m good where I am. We all are.” He prods the Iron Bull with a toe. “We’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re ready. So kill your Vint and your dragons, and we can get back to doing what we do best.” 

“Just think about it, alright? There are a lot more opportunities out there than even the Inquisition can give you.”

The exasperated look is back. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

Krem sighs, but whatever explanation is about to follow is cut short by a sharp knock on the door.

The Iron Bull groans, slipping his feet back into his boots and crossing the room to open the door. “Yeah?”

It’s Skinner, whetstone in one hand. Makes a change from those damn dice. “Something you’ll want to see, chief.” 

“Trouble?”

Skinner grins, but shakes her head. “Come on,” she says, and starts heading down the hallway without any further explanation. The Iron Bull shrugs at Krem and follows her, noting with a sinking feeling the flask and quiver propped up against the wall outside their rooms.

“Skins,” he says slowly, “were you keeping watch?” 

She doesn’t answer, but the freshly sharpened daggers at her hip say it all. She always carries just the two; one of them he got her back when the Chargers were just starting out. She’d hoard every pay packet he gave her with a fierce and frantic intensity that made him spring for the dagger out of his own pocket, just so he’d never have to take anything from her. The other one’s a family heirloom - if such a lofty title can be applied to an old, poorly made knife held together with sheer determination - not that many people know that about her. The other thing no one else really knows about Skinner is that she’d have been a tanner by trade if she’d stayed in the family business, if her father hadn’t been killed, if the world she was born into wasn’t so fucked up, if she hadn’t learned to lash out instead of accepting her place, if, if, if. There’s a lot of ifs with Skinner, and the Iron Bull’s just glad he could give her a few more.  _ If _ he hadn’t run into her when he did, who knows.

“You heard Krem and I, huh,” he says, and just gets a snort in reply. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Still no answer, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t listening.

“Unless the boss finds another dragon, obviously, in which case, fuck you guys, I’m fighting a  _ dragon _ .”

Skinner snorts, leading him down the stairs, and finally gets to the point. “Your girlfriend showed up ten minutes ago.” 

“Huh,” he says, “she’s late.”

That gets Skinner’s attention, and she turns to look at him with a sharp expression. “What?”

“I thought she’d be here an hour ago, if she set off at midday.” The Iron Bull shrugs. “I guess it took longer for her to change her mind.”

“How did you know she would?” She squints at him suspiciously. He’d be offended that she still doesn’t think all that much of his deductive skills if it was anyone else.

He ruffles Skinner’s hair, which she hates, but it’s not like she does hugs either. “Because I’d do exactly the same if it was you guys.”

She ducks away, but half-heartedly. He wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near her if she really minded. “Unless there was a dragon.”

“We all have our line in the sand, Skinner. How about,” he says a little more softly, “you get some sleep before tomorrow?”

“Rocky snores.”

“I’ve told you, roll him onto his side, it works every time. Hey, Geram - “ He waves down the barkeep now they’re back in the common area, where Geram is talking to a tall, hooded figure with an apologetic expression. “She’s with us, we can squeeze her in.”

If Adaar is surprised at how not-surprised her welcoming party is, she doesn't show it. When she pushes her hood back she just looks tired; her change of heart must have come much later in the day than he’d expected, and she’s travelled hard since. Alone, as well. Hardly impressive after everything he’s seen her do, but there’s something like pride in the look he gives her, or maybe admiration, or just plain approval. He likes that she’s the Inquisitor but she’ll still take a hard day’s travel on foot, and he likes that she clearly just walked right out of Skyhold without a backwards glance, against all the advice she would’ve been given if she’d asked for it. He likes that she just  _ left _ , just thought,  _ fuck it, _ and did what she needed to do.

“Josephine is going to lose her shit,” the Iron Bull says conversationally, shooting Geram a grin. The removal of her hood seems to have started the slow process of realisation, and his jaw hangs slackly as he looks between them. “Come on, we've got two rooms. We'll find somewhere for you.”

The cogs keep turning behind Geram’s expression. “Wait, are you -”

“Let’s keep this between us,” the Iron Bull suggests with a wink, because the best kept secrets are always the ones people feel like they're in on. Probably doesn't hurt that Skinner's stood behind him looking as Skinner-ish as she ever does, still in her full gear and her daggers freshly sharpened. Adaar spares Geram a smile of her own in that the half-embarrassed, half-irritated way she has when people start looking at her in awe. She gets recognised more often than folk actually  _ recognise _ her, given that they tend to see a female qunari and make the leap regardless. It amuses him to think they pull this routine with any Tal-Vashoth they meet, too.

It's the horns as well, now her hood is off and they're clearly visible. Adaar’s curve back over her head in pretty much the opposite to the outwards jut of the Iron Bull's, so there's at least some merit for her in wearing the hood where he’d probably stick out more trying to cover them up. The Tal-Vashoth cut theirs but Adaar never has, because she's Vashoth raised in a world of hornless bas and can see the horns for what they are, and not the way a Tal-Vashoth would. He likes that about her too.

“I’m guessing I have you to thank for the cart,” Adaar says in a low voice, following them back upstairs. So she spotted it, then. He'd been sure to leave it placed somewhere just prominently enough it looked kind of weird, just in case. It’d annoyed Krem.

“Anytime, boss,” he says, and sees Adaar shake her head with a rueful grin. “Figured you'd need it.” He'd had them stop earlier than usual too, to give her a fighting chance of catching up. By Skinner’s quiet groan, she’s figured that out, too.

“I had every intention of staying,” Adaar says, “I just…” She trails off with a sheepish shrug.

“The clerics?”

“Vivienne said she’d run damage control for me.”

“Good old Viv,” the Iron Bull says, rounding the top of the stairs and raising an eyebrow at Krem peering curiously round the doorframe. “And Josephine’s alright with that?”

“She’ll have to be,” Adaar says grimly, which gets a laugh from Skinner, though Adaar is clearly past finding it funny. “When she finds out, anyway.”

“Eh, they'll handle it.” The Iron Bull stops at the entrance to his room, Krem looking between them with the hint of a smirk. “They always do.”

“The cart,” Krem says slowly, and then shakes his head with a grin. He gives Adaar a brisk little nod. “Evening, Inquisitor. You joining in the fun on this one?”

“Looks like,” she says wryly, and then finally grins, shrugging off the guilt with her travelling cloak. Almost. “How'd you know I'd come, anyway?” She directs this at the Iron Bull. “ _ I _ didn't.”

“No one can see their own blind spots, boss,” he says fondly, and then points at his eye and adds: “I’d know.”

Krem rolls his eyes and grabs a pillow off the bed, tucks it under his arm. “Anyway,” he says, “I think that's my cue to leave.” But not without the only decent pillow, the little shit. 

“Lieutenant, please,” Adaar says, sounding vaguely horrified, “I’m not here to disrupt -”

Krem just shakes his head with another grin, waving her concerns away with just the right amount of cheerful unconcern. “It was pretty cozy anyway,” he says, “the big lump’s all yours, your worship.”

She still isn't entirely comfortable with that by the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot, but she chuckles and nods. “Right. Thanks, Krem. Just another thing, though -”

“Inquisitor?”

“I'm just tagging along on this one,” she says, “so… you can probably drop the titles, if you don't mind.”

Krem shoots the Iron Bull a curious glance, but gives her another nod. “Can do, ser,” he says carefully. “Sleep well, both of you, or, er - nevermind.” He clears his throat. “See you in the morning, chief.”

“Roll him over,” the Iron Bull calls after him, “the left side is best, remember.” Krem flips him off as he heads down the corridor, pillow in tow. “Skinner, you too,” he adds, as she's still stood there watching them. “Quit sharpening weapons in the corridor at least, it's kinda creepy.”

Skinner tosses off a sarcastic salute but follows suit, and that's good enough for him. He turns to Adaar where she's leaning against the door. She smiles. “Blind spots, huh?”

Hissrad didn't think he had any blind spots, and for a while, he was maybe right. When he felt the darkness creeping up on the edges of his vision he thought he could stop it, thought he could account for his weaknesses by turning himself back over to be scrubbed clean. The Iron Bull was Hissrad made over, his sense and clarity of purpose renewed. He was supposed to be, anyway.

And then he met a Ferelden refugee with a bagful of poultices that tasted like ass. A half-starved elf with a dozen warrants to her name, not one of them fair. A dwarf with more harebrained plans than he's ever known come from one person's brain. A mage without a home when she'd always thought she'd have one. An Orlesian who's _ not  _ much of a conversationalist. All of them sunspots on the edge of his vision from looking at something too bright for too long.

And the final straw, a kid from Tevinter with more defiance than any dead man walking had a right to. Enough to make him look twice. Enough for the Iron Bull to put himself between a stranger and a maul. The maul took half his vision, and the kid, well. He took his fair share of something too. The loss of finer depth perception, that's easy: the Iron Bull shifts his head a lot, part mannerism and part tactical appraisal, to better get the multiple points of view that two eyes would otherwise provide. He knows he leaves himself open on his blind side, and when you know something like that, you can plan for it. He couldn't have planned for the blind spot shaped like a scrappy Vint runaway anymore than he could've planned for the rest of the Chargers, but the difference was that those ones didn't mean leaving something so big out of a report. 

It was inevitable, then, but it had always been just a matter of time. They'd scrubbed him clean before and they'd have done it again starting with the misfits that followed him, but there'd been something else that blindsided both the Iron Bull and his Ben-Hassrath superiors.

Adaar was a known quantity as far as he was concerned, he might hate Vashoth mercenaries a little less than their Tal-Vashoth cousins but they're cut from the same cloth. The difference with Vashoth is that they just don't know any better, even the ones like her that grew up with the stories and the warnings, he says 'Ben-Hassrath’ and still all they see is the horns. Kinship, though they're anything but kin. She'd been some degree of comfortable with him straight away, even when he told her upfront what he was. Vashoth ignorance, predictable as the rain. All he had to do was cup his hands and catch it.

They never put it in writing, but they never had to. He was just waiting for the clouds.

Between the years of Ben-Hassrath training and whatever's leftover from Seheron, nothing really surprises him anymore. Every outcome is anticipated, every unlikely event as thoroughly considered as the likely ones. But Adaar has surprised him time after time. He's still the Iron Bull; he can read her body language as well as anyone else's, parse her complex motives and drives and desires as much as you ever can, guess at her likely responses to most situations when he chooses to. He’d been somewhere close to certain that she'd turn up tonight, but there are things he could never have guessed. Her faith in him, more than simple ignorance. The self-possession that goes against everything he was taught about himself, about his kind. The dragon's tooth that he watched her tug from the corpse himself, but didn't make the leap to what she planned on doing with it until he held half in his hand, weeks later.

The Iron Bull has a lot of blind spots. 

“Look,” she says, rubbing her forehead with her fingers and looking sheepish all over again. “I really did plan on sitting this one out, you know? I don't want to get in the way of -”

“Relax, boss,” he says, opening the door of the room and gesturing for her to enter. “Me, you, and the Chargers? It'll be fun.” 

“Fun,” Adaar repeats dryly, but lets him guide her into the pokey room. 

“You got it.” The door clicks shut, and the Iron Bull grins and takes a step closer, dipping his head closer to hers. The way she rises to meet him and anchors him with her hands either side of his neck is familiar enough now that he doesn't even think about it. Kissing is a bas invention for sure, but one of the good ones like fancy lingerie, or brandy, and not the shit ones like overboiled vegetables and starched linen. It doesn’t really compare to the other stuff two people can do with their mouths and a bit of privacy (however minimal that privacy is; he can hear the scrape of Skinner misusing her whetstone like the wall even isn't there, though it's never bothered him before) but, well. It’s still good. 

Bas can get all weird about nudity and even weirder about sex, so his working theory is that they came up with kissing to have something to do in the awkward lull where they take their clothes off. There's a certain appeal to the romantic cliche of the enamoured couple tripping over their own feet as they undress each other, mostly because it's also a pretty good excuse to knock furniture over in a variety of new and interesting ways. Nothing to do with his slightly poorer depth perception, he's more than capable of avoiding a chest of drawers no matter how distracted he is - the Iron Bull just likes ruining furniture in the pursuit of good sex. It's a shared hobby, really.

But not right now. That's not what she needs.

Hissrad spent a lot of time figuring out what people wanted, but the Iron Bull is looking for what they  _ need. _ It’s harder, and he's worse at it for all the sentimental sunspots creeping in on his clarity. Nothing to be done about that, but there it is. It was all so easy when all he was offering the Chargers was good work and good pay, and they got it. Everyone got what they needed, but it's - different, now. 

Skinner wants him to say he'll drop it all and things’ll go back to how they were, impossible even if he wanted to, but she  _ needs _ another kind of reassurance, one he's still figuring out how to give her. Krem just wants a guaranteed place as his second as long as they're both still standing, another impossible request, and far less than he deserves. That'll take a deft touch too if he’s to get Krem to see what the Iron Bull sees when he looks at his second, the fire and potential that shouldn’t be squandered for a little sentimentality. Giving them what they want would be easy, so  _ easy, _ but those days are long gone.

Adaar’s needs aren’t simple either, but he’s finding that by contrast fulfilling them comes very easily. She needed a team that she trusted to do the job the way she wanted, and he could give her that. Then she needed to be there herself, to be involved personally, and he anticipated that, too. Now all she needs is a little reassurance, and he can do that without even having to lie. Shared absolution, maybe, not that he's looking for any himself.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “I would've done the same.”

“I know.” It's not the answer he expected. She lets one hand move from his neck to rest with the palm flat on his chest, above his heart and the dragon tooth, and then she smiles. “Just following your example.”

“Mine?”

“You wouldn't leave the Chargers if they needed you, and I'm not about to do anything less.”

If the Iron Bull's grin falters where Hissrad’s never would have, it's because he finds this harder to bear than Hissrad ever did, the burden of knowing the people he cares about far better than they'll ever know him. It's what they need, though. It's what she needs to believe. 

“My example,” he says, and makes it sound smug which gets a laugh. There's something in his chest that feels hollow as he says it, then raw when her amused expression says she buys it. Of course she does. “Good thinking, boss.”

The irony is, all he's ever done is follow hers.


	2. Chapter 2

Adaar rises early, proof that she's got a way to go as an honorary Charger, and she's already outside and geared up before the rest of them start to trickle out at their own pace, yawning and bickering. The Iron Bull knows he won't need to hurry them along, that they'll be ready to go on time despite appearances, and so he's happy to sit inside and help himself to Krem's fruit loaf while they wait.

“Do you mind?” Krem says without much conviction. “Get your own breakfast.”

“They didn't have anything good when I asked. How come you get fruit loaf?”

Krem swats his hand away as he goes in for another piece. “Because I'm charming.”

“Hey, _I'm_ charming.”

“Not as charming as me, apparently,” Krem says smugly, and gives him a shit-eating grin.

“Hmm. You stole my pillow.”

“You stole my bed!”

“How was Rocky’s snoring?” he asks Krem, to no response. “That bad, huh?”

Right on cue, Rocky makes an appearance from upstairs with a face like thunder and a small red mark on his forehead.

“Uh oh,” the Iron Bull says, “what was it this time? Someone throw food at you again?”

Rocky sits down heavily and take a piece of the fruit loaf without asking, but Krem wisely chooses not to object. “Boot.”

“Told you to roll him over,” the Iron Bull says, glancing reproachfully at Krem. “He's quiet as a sleeping nug if you roll him over.” That gets him a matching reproachful glance from Rocky.

“Don't look at me,” Krem says, “that's got Skinner written all over it.”

“Dalish, actually,” Rocky says glumly, and reaches to grab a second slice, which Krem looks indignant about this time, despite himself. “Skinner was the jug of water. Can't get my bloody socks dry.”

“And you slept through all this?” The Iron Bull says, shooting Krem a sceptical look. His lieutenant just shrugs, which piques his interest. The skill in reading people - or deduction, or _spying_ , whatever you want to call it - isn't necessarily in seeing the truth right away. It's knowing when to keep poking and prodding, when something doesn't sound quite right and it's time to peel back the layers. Rocky is too preoccupied wringing himself out to add any context he can offer to Krem's sudden silence.

So, the Iron Bull pokes Krem a little more. “You never used to sleep through anything. All those fancy beds in Skyhold making you soft?”

“What, like you?” Krem shoots back. There's a slight flush high on his cheeks. “You spend a lot more time in fancy beds than I do, so it stands to reason if I'm soft, you're softer.”

“ _The Iron Bull_ isn't soft.” More deflections from Krem, he notes. “Cuddly, maybe.”

Krem rolls his eyes and the Iron Bull is about to start a new line of prodding when they're interrupted by Geram, the man from last night, with fresh water and a tray of less-than-fresh pastry. It's high luxury for an inn of this size in this location, staleness notwithstanding, and judging by his expression Geram is proud of this. So he should be.

“Morning,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully, and takes a pastry as he puts the platter on the table. Yeah, it's definitely stale. Probably wasn't all that great even when it was fresh, but you don't get many Val Royeaux trained sous-chefs queueing up to work in places like this. Kid's doing his best.

“Morning,” Geram says just as brightly, seemingly a lot less flustered in their company than the night before, or maybe that's just because Adaar is outside. He's certainly more at ease with the Iron Bull, so it must be her religious significance rather than the horns. He seems pretty comfortable being in close proximity to them this morning. It's more than can be said of Krem, apparently, who nearly knocks his drink over when Geram asks: “How's the fruit loaf? I'm sorry it's not fresh.”

“It’s really good, thanks,” Krem says, which it isn't. It _is_ fairly fresh, actually, but that’s about all it has going for it. Politeness dictates Krem can't say that, but he's just a bit too much on the side of effusive as to be notable. Krem’s always respectful, but he’s not a habitual liar, or even much inclined to undeserved flattery. The Iron Bull leans back in his chair with a grin and watches with interest.

“Glad you like it,” Geram says, and gathers the empty mugs with a faint pink flush on his cheeks. “Were your rooms alright? I'm sorry we didn't have more available -”

“They were just fine,” the Iron Bull says, “just a bit cosy. Isn't that right, Krem?” That earns him a half-hearted glare.

“Plenty room,” Rocky says through a mouthful of food, oblivious. “The four of us fit in just fine, the chief and Krem might've been a bit cramped, though.”

“Funny,” the Iron Bull says, still grinning at Krem, “I thought he was in with -”

“We appreciate you finding space for us,” Krem says loudly, “and you didn't need to go to all this trouble.”

“Above and beyond,” the Iron Bull agrees, getting another glare. “We all appreciate it. Some of us a bit _more_ than others -”

“Rocky,” Krem says, at the same determinedly loud volume, “make sure Skinner's up, will you?”

Rocky gives Krem an indignant look before protesting, but it gives Geram the opportunity to excuse himself with the used plates.

“I don't care if she's up. She poured an entire jug of water on my head.”

“Yeah, and if she's not awake you can pour one on hers, alright?”

Rocky gives this a moment's consideration, weighing his odds. Skinner is usually an early riser, but then she'd have been down here if she was awake. The possibility of revenge clearly appeals to him, but he knows Skinner doesn't trade tit for tat. An even score for Skinner is one where she has the last word, regardless of how it started. He decides, evidently, that the momentary satisfaction outweighs whatever price Skinner will exact, and pushes his plate away decisively as he rises.

“Braver man than me,” the Iron Bull says by way of a warning, but Rocky isn't to be deterred. If he was the kind to be deterred he'd still be in Orzammar. Marrying some daughter-of-a-cousin-of-a-Shaper or whatever it was, some tenuous grab at respectability on his father's part that might've paid off if Rocky wasn't so undeterrably, inexplicably fond of risking life and limb for the satisfaction of a little destruction. That's Rocky.

If he wasn't more interested in teasing Krem, the Iron Bull might even follow him and see what happens. As it is, he just watches Rocky leave before turning his attention right back to his lieutenant.

“So,” the Iron Bull says, and clasps his hands behind his head with a grin. “Krem.” And then, again, but even more delightedly: “ _Krem.”_

“We should get moving,” Krem says, resigned to the conversation but still trying to stubbornly side step it. That's why he's so much fun to needle. “Is the Inqui- I mean, is Adaar ready to -”

“Just how _charming_ were you?”

Krem can't resist being a little indignant. “I'm always charming.”

“Well, you did learn from the best.” The Iron Bull can't keep a stupid grin off his face. “You sly minx.”

“Excuse me?”

“Slinking off all hard done by with my pillow when you had no intention of roughing it with the boys.” He's winding Krem up mostly. Some gentle teasing to tease out the truth. “Very devious.”

“That’s not what happened,” Krem says defensively, and then groans at finding himself having sprung the trap so neatly. “I was keeping out of Skinner's way, alright? It's good to leave her be when she's getting settled, so I went downstairs to get a drink.”

“A _drink_. Course you did.”

“I was thirsty!”

“I'll bet you were.”

“Chief,” Krem says, with remarkable poise, “you're making this really weird, you know that?”

The Chargers have their bawdy little ditties and their homespun manners, and they tend to tear through a place with a correspondingly rowdy charm, Krem included. He sings along and drinks along and he wins over the locals with that something about him that's just plain likeable, but Krem never forgets the flail that was meant for him. Neither does the Iron Bull. As his lieutenant, it's Krem's job to cut the Chargers off before rowdy turns to too rowdy, to hold Rocky back when he's getting riled up by some smug merchant's guild type, to take time out from singing and drinking to sit in quiet one-sided conversation with Grim. It's easy to miss the way this blurs at the edges, the way he'll stop one drink before everyone else, the way he’ll laugh along with the rest of them but his eyes are always scanning the room.

It's not that Krem never lived up to the Chargers’ debauched reputation but that everything he did was careful and calculated, a far cry from the Iron Bull's spontaneous choice of bedroom companion. He'd never have asked outright but Krem used to run it by him in some other way, waiting for his Ben Hassrath verdict on a new acquaintance by way of an offhand comment. Sometimes he'd even strike up a conversation with them after the Iron Bull had found some way of casually approving of them. Krem's effortlessly charming; it tended to go well when he chose to put himself out there. But sometimes the Iron Bull thought about marching back to Tevinter with an even bigger fucking flail. The ones swinging the biggest weapons don't always do the most damage, as the Tamassran have shown him time and time again. Bas don't have enough respect for that, least of all ‘Vints. Sometimes, in that split second where Krem's grin falters, he wants to educate them.

“Yeah,” the Iron Bull says fondly, and reaches over to ruffle his hair. Krem ducks away unsuccessfully, grumbling. “I'm proud of you.”

“Not making it any less weird.”

“You had bread sex. I'm allowed to be proud of you.”

“You really _do_ do things different in the Qun, huh?”

The Iron Bull just grins wider. “You know what I mean. He made that fruit loaf for you this morning.”

“He made _a_ fruit loaf this morning. For general consumption. I just got there first.”

“You put him in a good mood.”

“Shut up.”

 

-

 

Skinner’s back at it with the whetstone, with a glare that would not so much curdle milk as cause an entire herd of dairy cows to drop dead on the spot, and if she thinks that sharpening her dagger is threatening, then - yeah, it absolutely is, especially when she’s putting that kind of ferocity into it. She sheathes the dagger she’s been working on and reaches up to wring out her hair over one shoulder again, her expression growing angrier, if that’s even possible. Up ahead of them Rocky walks beside Grim, his feet making an unpleasant squelching sound with every step. It’s a tableau that tells of a very specific story.

Dalish can never stand tension between any of them and keeps darting little agitated glances across at Skinner before she finally gives in to the impulse. “I can help,” she says, “I could try to dry -”

“ _No_ ,” Skinner snaps, and reaches for her other dagger as Dalish deflates beside her. No point berating Skinner for unkindness when she’s in this sort of mood, but Dalish’s uncharacteristic referral to her magic deserves recognition, so he pats her on the shoulder out of Skinner’s line of sight.

“You did kind of start it,” the Iron Bull says mildly, and can feel the heat of Skinner's glare without needing to look. “You know, with the jug of water -”

“Because he can't stop making that _fucking noise_ -”

“He can't help it, you know that.”

Skinner’s scowl only deepens. _“You_ didn't have to sleep in the same room as him.”

“Trust me,” the Iron Bull says, mentally kicking himself for letting her bring that into it, “there's not a wall in Thedas thick enough to keep that noise out. I heard him just fine.”

“Bullshit. I bet it didn't keep you awake all night.” Yeah, here it comes. “I bet it didn't keep the _Inquisitor_ awake.”

“Nope,” the Iron Bull says, “that was me.” The best way to deflect Skinner is just to meet her head on and then push back. “Really sets the mood, let me tell you. Next time you're looking to seduce someone, I highly recommend a drunk dwarf snoring in the background.”

Dalish laughs until Skinner elbows her in the ribs and then she presses her lips together, but she looks a little less dejected after Skinner's rebuke which is all the better.

“Bullshit,” Skinner mutters, but she sheathes her dagger. The joke about snoring dwarves is too obviously stupid for her to bother protesting, but Skinner doesn’t elaborate on what, exactly, _is_ bullshit. Skinner thinks a lot of things are bullshit. Rich shems specifically. Orlais in general. Soup spoons. Fruit in cakes. It could be something worth knowing, and it could just be another of her stubborn idiosyncrasies.

“Tell me you at least tried rolling him over.” No answer. “Come on, Skinner. Tell me you didn’t just dunk a jug of water on him without even _trying_.” Nothing. “Seriously?”

“I told you,” Skinner says through gritted teeth, “it’s annoying.”

“Not a smart idea to get on the bad side of the guy with all the explosives.”

“I'm not on his bad side.” She casts a derisive look at where Rocky is walking in front of them. “He's on mine.”

The Iron Bull is inclined to agree. “Don't you go turning this into some huge feud again, alright? That whole thing with the custard got out of hand.”

Dalish laughs from behind her hand, getting a half-hearted glare from Skinner. This time it just makes her laugh harder.

“No feud,” Skinner says, “just payback.”

“ _Skinner.”_

“Fair is fair,” she says, meaning pretty much the opposite. Her eyes turn sharp. “I smell blood.”

“That's… dramatic, but as long as it's metaphorical -”

“No,” Skinner says, and throws an arm out in front of Dalish. “I smell it here.” The Iron Bull comes to a standstill too, recognising the seriousness in her voice this time and letting out a quick, loud whistle that has the rest of his company grind to a halt behind them. Not a signal Adaar is familiar with, but she's bringing up the rear with Krem and sure to catch on.

“Where?”

“Ahead.” Skinner nods, and now that he's really straining for it he can smell it too. He wouldn't identify it as such without knowing what to look for, keen as his sense of smell is, it's nothing next to Skinner. It's half an elf thing and half a Skinner thing, Dalish able to match her in theory but not in practice; years of necessity have given her the edge.

Krem and Adaar are moving up from behind the cart to join them at the front, but he doesn't look away from Skinner as they flank him quietly.

“What is it, Skinner?”

“Dead shems. Dead -” She looks to his left, where he can hear Adaar’s steady breathing, and Skinner seems to falter as their eyes meet, something he's seen only rarely in all the time he's known her. “Dead something else. I don't know.”

“Krem, Skinner, you're with me.” The rest know that means they stay with the cart and watch their backs. Adaar falls into step with the three of them as they follow Skinner a few hundred feet into the denser trees.

It's the first cooler day after a run of dry heat, so the ground is still hard beneath their feet and the smell of the dead bodies becomes unpleasantly clear as they draw closer. Some semblance of humidity clings to the close trees, and it's that and the familiar stench of death that reminds him starkly, vividly of Seheron. He lets the uneasy feeling that stirs up simply move through him, breathing slowly until it passes enough for Orlais to just look like Orlais once more. He doesn't remember learning how to do that, but it feels as practiced as ever. Those who find themselves drowning will start to struggle, however level-headed, if they haven't learned how to still their movement and let themselves float. It's the struggle that kills you, more often than not. The Tamassran didn't want him to drown when they sent him back out to sea.

He knows, suddenly, what they will find lying amongst the trees.  

The Iron Bull takes stock of the two human bodies first, noting the nondescript and basic armour he'd expect to find on bandits or similar, and the contrast between them and the well-made and maintained weapons. He notes too that they haven't been reappropriated by their companions before they left their bodies to rot without ceremony, so presumably they’re not short on decent weaponry. It could just be evidence of good budgeting but he'd put his money on noble backing. There are plenty of the rich bastards with no love for the Inquisition or what they call 'Qunari’, and their otherwise constant flow of gold for weapons always seems to mysteriously stop when it comes to outfitting their thugs with decent armour.

The dead Tal-Vashoth he leaves for Adaar, Skinner and Krem following his lead with only a short glance exchanged between them before Krem rolls one of the human bodies over with his foot. There's nothing much worth either taking or examining, but Skinner and Krem crouch down by the bodies to take a closer look regardless, stalling for time. The Iron Bull lets his gaze drift to the third dead body, and Adaar.

The Iron Bull has seen a lot of dead Tal-Vashoth, none of which he mourned and he isn't about to start now. This one’s horns are cut back and their entire body is covered extravagantly in vitaar and regular war paint alike, the kind of thing that intimidates the gentil southerners and presumably was designed to exploit just that. He was lithe, probably a fighter who relied on agility and speed but found his match in an angry mob of bas with no back up. It wasn't a quick or easy death, and he'd have known there was no escape from the beginning, even before he managed to take those two humans down with him. It's the kind of death the Qun would approve of for a traitor, and the Iron Bull's inclined to agree. There's honour in a death like that, even for deserters.

Adaar kneels by the body, studying it the same way he has. Tal-Vashoth may have turned their back on the Qun but they still hold by many of the teachings, and this Tal-Vashoth will have considered his body nothing more than a vessel now his soul has departed it. He won't have expected Adaar to treat it with any particular respect, but a Vashoth wouldn't understand that. The again, maybe she does: she doesn't reach over to close its eyes the way he's seen humans and elves do, although she does roll it onto its back in a careful movement.

“Ashaad,” she says eventually, just as the Iron Bull is thinking of finally breaking the silence himself. “One of the scouts Shokrakar sent when the caravan escort didn't return.”

“Sorry, boss,” he says quietly, and the brief but wrenching expression that flickers across her face is entirely at odds with the terse way she shakes his platitudes off. He notes that, and he notes the way Krem flinches slightly to his left. He doesn't offer anything further.

“They're keeping a wide perimeter,” she says, dispassionate to a fault. “Much wider than the initial report.”

“They've got the numbers to do it,” the Iron Bull agrees, “ and maybe Rylen’s scouts have got them twitchy.” Not only Rylen's, he thinks, but there's no need to voice that. _Ashaad,_ qunlat for scout. Tal-Vashoth tend to keep their titles in place of names, whereas Vashoth make their own. Not like Hissrad, of course, who was neither of those. Vashoth are given names like Adaar because they fit neatly between something that their Tal-Vashoth companions will find appropriate and impressive and something that fits a bas understanding of a name. The Iron Bull was always supposed to do something else entirely.

Adaar doesn't move away from the Tal-Vashoth body, but she casts a scrutinising eye over the two dead humans. “Where’s Rylen's camp now?”

It’s Krem who answers. “They moved south of their last position once they knew we were on our way.”

“On your instructions? You have a plan?”

Krem hesitates and looks at the Iron Bull, not continuing until he nods very slightly. ”Yes, ser. We thought Rylen's men might spook them and we didn't want to provoke things further. Best just to contain the area and let them think they're falling back.”

“Spooked captors aren't good news for captives,” the Iron Bull says, not that he thinks she needs reminding, but seeing death has a way of shaking loose your priorities.

“My suggestion,” Krem continues, “would be to approach them from the opposite direction. We've got everything we need, we can conceal the cart and meet up with Rylen later. No need to advertise our presence more than we have to.”

If only the Imperium could see him now, the Iron Bull thinks, the tailor-in-training whose future they outsourced, the loyal footsoldier forced to turn illegal runaway, a lowly soparati giving suggestions to a Vashoth Inquisitor.

Adaar looks back down at the Tal-Vashoth on the ground, still on her knees beside the body and one hand half raised above it. She lets that hand drop and nods briskly. “I agree. We keep off the highway and leave the cart where we camp tonight.”

Krem nods obediently but doesn't leave, still watching Adaar. She looks up at the Iron Bull for the first time, and as he meets her eyes he swallows the last of his distaste for her choice of companions. She's Vashoth. She can't know what she was never taught.

“Take his dagger,” he says quietly. “Ebost issala. The body returns to dust. His weapon is his legacy.” This was an unquestioned truth to him for so long, but he's not sure it would be enough now. A maul in place of everything Krem is, two meagre daggers instead of Skinner’s vital presence. How could that possibly be enough?

He watches as Adaar follows his instruction wordlessly and he can see that it isn't, which is why as she rises heavily to her feet he takes a step forward and lets his hand fit around the curve of her cheek and jaw. She places her own hand on top of his for a brief moment before she drops both their hands and strides past him in the direction of the cart without a backwards glance. He knows better than to take any brusqueness personally, and he knows her well enough that he doesn't follow immediately.

He turns to see Skinner watching him, Krem looking down at the bodies with an uncomfortable expression. There's a little more empathy on his face than the Iron Bull cares to see, as though Krem thinks he's looking at a fellow outcast rather than a deserter. Krem would never have run if they'd left him any other choice, but they never let him be who he was. Who he could be. Under the Qun, your potential is recognised and honoured by being put to use as fully as it can be. Tal-Vashoth have turned their back on their very nature.

Skinner’s harder to read even though she's looking right at him. He's had plenty practice and sometimes he feels like he's still only scratching the surface. He can identify the disapproval in her gaze, even track it back to the silent moment of comfort he offered Adaar, but that's where he hits a wall. Skinner hasn't got a problem with Adaar, he even thinks she rather likes her, and she's never been particularly precious about the Chargers sharing the Iron Bull’s attention, either.

“Let's mark the location,” Krem says after a long pause. “Someone should come back and make sure the bodies are burned when this is all done.”

“Good thinking.” He gestures at the weapons he'd noted before. “Expensive gear. Half of it, anyway.”

“Noble funding?”

“Seems likely.”

Krem grimaces. “Great. Instead of just idiots with swords, it's idiots with big, expensive swords. That poor bastard never stood a chance.”

“Took down two,” Skinner says approvingly. “He was one of hers?”

“Yeah.” The Iron Bull can't help but remember that expression Adaar wore in the seconds before she had it under control. “One of her guys. Can't be easy.”

Skinner just looks at him. “But she left them.”

“Come on, Skinner,” Krem mutters, “you know that isn't fair.”

“I’m just saying,” Skinner says, “if she left them -”

The Iron Bull cuts across her, mild but firm. “ _Hey._ Listen. If you're mad at me, be mad at me. Don't take it out on Adaar.” He can head off the confrontation a little longer, or he can have it now. Neither are ideal but one has to happen, so he takes the opportunity she gives him as she squares up to his words with a derisive snort. “Cut the bullshit, Skinner. You mad at me for something?”

“You want to talk about bullshit?” She takes a step closer and draws herself up in front of him, all five wiry foot of her. She barely reaches his chest. He's mad at her and fiercely proud of her all at once, of her stubbornness and her fearlessness and her infuriating, shitty attitude. “You didn't hear Rocky snoring at all.”

“Are we seriously still talking about Rocky's fucking snoring?”

“If you could hear him, why couldn't I hear you?”

“Because I don't snore,” the Iron Bull says, and then upon catching Krem's expression, adds, “much, anyway. Skinner, you gotta let this go -”

“I should’ve heard something,” Skinner snaps, “seeing as how you're apparently _fucking_ all night.”

“You’ve lost me here, Skinner. Are you pissed at me for not drowning Rocky out? Because somehow I don't think that would've put you in a better mood.”

“Either you didn't hear him or you weren't fucking.” She glares at him. “ _And_ you don't look tired. So all that bullshit about seducing someone to snoring dwarves -”

“What, I'm not allowed to make jokes now?”

“You didn't hear him or you weren't fucking,” she repeats, digging her heels in the way only she knows how. She continues to glare at him as if she can't decide which option is more heinous, before offering up her cutting verdict. More cutting than she knows. “Liar,” she says. He can't argue with that.

“It was just a funny story, Skins,” he says wearily, after a moment's heavy silence. “You're making this into something it isn't.”

“You're still pretending you're the same,” she says scornfully, another accusation that catches him off balance. “But you're not.”

“Nothing's changed. You're still my guys.”

“Except you're never there,” she says, and Krem grimaces and grabs her arm. She shakes him off, and then goes in for the low blows the Iron Bull has been bracing himself for. “No more redheads. No more sex. No more - ”

Time to pull rank. “Are you done?” the Iron Bull says flatly, and stares her down.

“We've got a job to do, Skinner,” Krem adds sharply, knowing the same as him that it's time to apply pressure. Krem's the only one who can come close to keeping her focused compared to the Iron Bull, and clearly he's not as good at it as he thought. He keeps his expression blank and disinterested even as Skinner bristles, because if you show her your throat she'll take the opening. She doesn't know how to do anything else.

“Whatever,” she mutters, and lowers her hackles a little. Not quite alley cat transformed to fireside tabby, but it'll do. “You're boring too,” she tells Krem irritably. “You're never any fun anymore, either.”

“Get back to the cart, Skinner,” Krem says, not unkindly, and rolls his eyes. She stalks off at his order without a backwards glance, and Krem sighs once she's out of earshot. “Ignore her, chief. She'll calm down soon enough.”

“I know.”

Krem hesitates for just a moment, short enough that he maybe doesn't even know he's doing it. “She's just tired and being an asshole about it, you know Skinner. Don't take it to heart.”

“Have I ever?” The Iron Bull says dryly, getting a chuckle. “I can handle Skinner, just don't let her take it out on Adaar. Or you,” he adds, giving Krem a pointed look.

“Who do you think gets the brunt of it when you're not around?” Krem says lightly, and then catches himself with a small grimace. “I don't mean - I'm not trying to imply -”

“I know what you meant,” the Iron Bull says, and grips him on the shoulder. “Just keep an eye on her, would you?”

“I always do, chief.”

“Hey, I know.” He pats Krem's shoulder again.

“And I'll, er.” Krem clears his throat. “I'll take personal responsibility for making sure Rocky's sleeping on his side from now on.”

The Iron Bull gives him a sidelong look. “Sure that won't cramp your style?”

Krem rolls his eyes, but laughs quietly. “Never cramped yours, chief.”

“There's a knack to it,” the Iron Bull says, “simple, though. When he's had a few drinks, it's better than him being sober, but if he gets too drunk, it gets even worse. Skinner's worse when she's just had a few, but she relaxes when she's good and wasted. You always gotta let Rocky have the best pillow, him being quieter more than makes up for everyone else having a sore neck. Sometimes having the window open seems to agree with him, don't know if it's the fresh air or the cold, but if you make sure -”

“Woah, chief,” Krem says, alarmed. “You're giving away a lot of trade secrets here.”

“Yeah, so put them to good use.” The Iron Bull ignores Krem's continuing wrong-footed expression and starts heading back to the caravan. “Dalish has a temper on her too if she doesn't get her sleep, keep her on first watch when you're stopping for the night. Rocky’s better at getting up in the middle of the night and she's less likely to set his beard on fire.”

“Not that I don't appreciate it,” Krem says cautiously, “but you keep saying you're not going anywhere and then you come out with all this crap like you're planning on leaving -”

“You’re my lieutenant, Krem. This is just good for you to know.”

Krem isn't buying it. “If this is about what Skinner said -”

“This is about you getting a good night's sleep and fresh bread in the morning,” the Iron Bull says slyly, and Krem groans. “Sex bread,” he adds helpfully, to see if Krem squirms. Not quite, but it was worth a try. It at least takes his attention away from the Iron Bull's intentions.

“You're being weird again, chief," he says, and the Iron Bull enjoys having the chance to laugh, loud and deep. He suspects there won't be a lot of that in the hours ahead. 

"Come on," he says, and ruffles Krem's hair. "We've got a job to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This will just be a two part thing," I said confidently, naively, foolishly. "Just something short and fun." Thank you for sticking with me as I once again write something much longer than expected, much slower than I hoped!

**Author's Note:**

> I really hoped to finish this all at once and post it as a complete piece, but it's taking on a life of its own and I'm far too impatient (and, er, in need of external validation) to make it to the end just in my own weird writing cocoon. Will I ever be free of Dragon Age: Inquisition (2014)? Probably not


End file.
